


Rock

by ColorsofaYinYang



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Germany has a lack of emotions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:12:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4926319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorsofaYinYang/pseuds/ColorsofaYinYang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's as strong and dangerous and defensive and emotionless as a rock, tossed in the stormy, cold ocean of the military to be the most efficient soldier as possible.<br/>Once you lose emotion, it's hard to get it back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock

He's as strong and dangerous and defensive and emotionless as a rock, tossed in the stormy, cold ocean of the military to be the most efficient soldier as possible. It was drilled into his mind every single day that emotion was a weakness, and you should block it out of your mind to become the best soldier you could be. He would meditate for hours, clearing his mind, losing his emotions in the haze of nothingness.

He doesn't remember when it happened, when his mind became so closed in there was nothing left to feel, only ruthless intellect and steel muscles and hollow veins.

Now that the war's over, he doesn't know what to do. He can't connect to people, can't say anything without someone calling him rude and inconsiderate, can't even walk outside without having taunts and insults thrown at him. So instead he shuts himself out from the rest of the world, hiding behind closed windows and bolted doors, just like his mind, because he can't do anything.

Being emotionless would be boring if he could feel it.

~

Sometimes he remembers when he could feel and it brings a ghost of emotions crashing over his brain. But the emotions are muddied and greyed. Bright red rage becomes brownish blackish. Silver blue sadness becomes a faded navy blue. Shining yellow joy becomes dark mustard colored. He can't remember the last time he felt the last one. The ghosts of emotions linger, there but not quite, keeping him hollow and empty inside as he tries to feel but can't.

Sometimes he cries in his bed, forgotten by the world, but it's just tears streaming over his cheeks, nothing more. No curling up on his side, no clenching the blankets, no punching the pillows. He doesn't feel compelled to do these things. The tears are merely reactions to chemicals, hormones in his brain that tell him he should be feeling something when he can't, world black and white and grey around him, static and darkness and still.

These are the times he has dreams, and wakes up remembering none of them.

~

He's all alone, and it doesn't bother him.

He remembers learning that humans are social creatures, and that they would die without social life and relationships. Germany thinks that can't be true; after all, he is a living exception to that rule. His brother, Prussia, doesn't visit and doesn't talk to him. He claims he likes to be alone, but Germany sees him all the time with France and Spain, peering through the crack in the window blinds, from the only window not boarded up with nails and chains. Germany thinks he only says that to avoid him, and his heart twitches in his chest with something that feels like a little bit of regret and a little bit of hurt. He pushes it down. Sometimes it's better to not feel. Prussia can go play all he wants with his friends or lovers or whatever they are and he'll be just fine with it. He was always the more responsible one out of the two of them, anyway.

~

There's a knock at his door, and Germany jerks upright in his bed. No one ever visits him. He would be confused and surprised and scared. If he could feel. He jumps up, grabs a gun, pads silently down the stairs to the door that is bolted shut, chains across it, thick and intimidating. He undoes all the locks, holds his breath as he opens the door and pokes the head of the gun through the crack. For a moment he is actually confused; there is no one standing there. He opens the door a little wider, glances around, and _that's_ when he notices the wooden crate at his door. He looks around again, warily, and takes the crate inside. It's pretty heavy and he swears he can hear noises coming from inside. He pulls the nails out from the cover with a hammer and takes off the lid. What he sees surprises him yet again.

It's a man, with orange hair and watery eyes, gagged and wrists bound with ropes. _Is this a joke?_ is the first thing Germany thinks. But the man seems like he's not acting, shutting his eyes and whimpering, obviously terrified out of his mind. Germany goes to get something to cut the ropes with and comes back with a knife. The man in the crate freaks out, eyes widening and trying to shrink even further into the corner of the crate, legs kicking and arms trembling. He is a creature of emotion, and it makes Germany's heart fall and swell at the same time, because Germany is not, and for some reason he can't even think about hurting him. He shushes him, tries to coax him back, takes hold of one of his wrists and meets the other's eyes. He seems to get it, relaxes a little and exhales softly. There's a curl of hair on the side of his head, and it's mesmerizing, the way it bobs when the man moves, almost tantalizing. He wants to touch it for some reason, but is reminded of an anglerfish, the trap behind the light, remembers he doesn't even know the man's name, let alone what his purpose is and why he is here. He cuts the rope carefully, making sure not to slice the skin. The man exhales again with relief, and turns around, trusting, lets Germany untie the knot in the gag that keeps the man from speaking.

And if his fingers gently comb through the hair at the back of the man's neck, feeling the heat of another human being, then it was unintentional and accidental. Completely.

~

He learns the man's name is Italy. He's heard about this one, rumors of him being weak and cowardly overheard from conversations between pedestrians on the sidewalks near Germany's house. He seems nothing like what the rumors say. Weak physically, perhaps, but emotionally as strong as warm waves crashing into the white sand beaches of an island paradise. He's bright and cheerful and beautiful and friendly, a presence in the house, something Germany hasn't had for ages. Italy told him the story of how he was kidnapped, put in the crate, shipped overseas, and dropped at the doorstep to Germany's house. For someone who went through all that, he's remarkably energetic and optimistic. He thanks Germany profusely, and Germany's afraid he's about to leave, just like all the others, even when his very being burns and melts the stone barriers surrounding his mind and heart, keeping him from feeling. But Italy smiles at him and says something about paying him back and cleaning the house for him, because it was really quite dusty. Germany quietly sighs in relief, because at least he'll be able to keep _this_ ,  _him_ ,a bit longer.

He hopes Italy is terrible at cleaning.

~

Italy is amazing at cleaning. He sweeps the floors with a push broom he found in the closet and an old mop. He dusts and washes dishes and wipes the table and god is he beautiful. But his skill at cleaning means Germany's time with him is almost up, and his soul weeps at that. He is a rock, strong and dangerous and defensive and emotionless, but even rocks can be melted, and Italy is like fire and stars and the core of the Earth, blazing hot and melting stone. He can almost feel, the sensation of emotions on the tip of his tongue, metaphorically speaking, and he is so, so close, but if Italy leaves then he will be gone forever, drowning in the vast, cold ocean, rubbed away and eroded by rushing streams and cold burning wind.

He's so far gone for Italy he'll never come back.

When Italy asks if he can talk to him, he freezes. _This is it_ , he thinks, almost sadly but not quite enough, not silvery blue but more of a cornflower color. It's warmer than before but not nearly enough. He sits down on the couch and Italy sits next to him, gazes at him with chocolate eyes, the color of satisfaction and coziness and warmth. He talks and Germany can barely hear over the sound of his own heart beating. Italy's hand comes to rest on his cheek and he's pulled out of his stupor by the heat, the proximity because _when had Italy gotten so close_ and that's when he kisses him.

It's gentle and reassuring and exactly what Germany needs right now. He can't believe this is actually happening to him, 'rude', 'inconsiderate', _emotionless_ him, but then Italy groans and pulls him closer, heat intensifying and this is  so intimate his mind is spinning, stone barriers blown apart by dynamite and volcanoes and supernovas, bright and spirited and passionate just like Italy.

God is he beautiful.

Italy breaks the kiss and nuzzles into his neck, leans against him and relaxes. All the tension drains out of Germany in one breath, one arm gently draping itself over Italy's side and maneuvering them so he can lie down behind him, feel Italy's heat against him, reminding him that he, too, is human, and he can feel, and he needs a social life as well.

They fall asleep like this together, comforting and soothing each other with their presence, and when Germany wakes up the next morning with the Italian pressed into his chest, hair curl tickling his nose, he'll find that he remembers his dreams.

His mind flashes shining yellow, and he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> And then Germany unbolts his doors and opens the curtains and lets in the sunshine and Prussia comes over to visit and he makes new friends like Japan and England and they all live happily ever after. That's how all my stories end.
> 
> Please consider leaving kudos or comments! Thanks!


End file.
